


Whispers

by commandershakarian



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dalish, Gen, Well of Sorrows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 17:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3859018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commandershakarian/pseuds/commandershakarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fena'dea Lavellan seeks help from Abelas to learn all she can of the Well of Sorrows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Resoan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resoan/gifts).



Fena’dea Lavellan wiped the sweat from her brow, her dark shaggy hair falling into her face as she moved her hand away. When she’d first drunk from the well, the following whispers were loud and disorienting. With as much of her language as she knew, there were things that she didn’t understand. She had returned to Skyhold hoping that she’d understand more as time passed, but Corypheus had been defeated weeks ago and she still didn’t know what to do with the gift she’d been given.

The smell of elfroot and prophet’s laurel surrounded her as she worked, her hands stained green from the herbs. Running a blade along a stalk of laurel, Fena’dea placed the plant in the basket beside her. The sun was hot even in the wintery air of the mountains.

Velahari was still grieving the loss of Solas. There was nothing Fena’dea could do for the Inquisitor, for her dear friend, so she did the only thing she could think of and that was tend to the garden.

The whispers still ran through her mind, but it was getting a little easier to ignore them. She took what little hope that gave her and went about her daily chores as if nothing had changed, but for the rogue, everything had changed. She would forever be bound to a goddess who may or may not be dead. According to Abelas, the sentinel from the temple of Mythal, it could be either or both. She didn’t like the sound of that.

Grabbing the basket from the ground, Fena’dea stood, intending to head indoors to find a quiet corner of the castle to hide away from the hustle and bustle of the nobles when her amethyst gaze fell upon the ancient elf that had accompanied the Inquisition to Skyhold. He had come with the intentions of helping her figure out the knowledge she received from the _vir'abelasan_ , but she hadn’t seen much of him since they’d arrived.

“ _Andaran atish’an_ , Lavellan.” Abelas said, bowing his head in greeting. His hands were hidden behind his back, the hood he’d worn at the Temple resting against his shoulders. She was pleasantly surprised to find that he did, in fact, have hair unlike many of his fellow sentinels. It was white in the light of the sun, looking much like the snow that surrounded Skyhold. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Perhaps I welcome the disturbance.” She quipped, unable to stop the words as they left her mouth. Rolling her eyes at herself, Fena’dea smiled at the ancient elf. “I apologize. Sometimes I speak without thinking.”

“It’s different from what I’m accustomed,” Abelas admitted, thoughtfully, “but it is intriguing, _lethallan_.”

The rogue cleared her throat and rubbed the back of her neck, the slick sweat disgusting her as she remembered what she’d been doing beforehand. “Did you need something?”

“Yes. May we sit?”

Fena’dea nodded before taking the initiative and sitting cross-legged on the grass. Abelas was across from her, his light eyes studying her.

“Have you deciphered any of the memories from the _vir'abelasan_?”

Fena’dea shook her head, feeling saddened by the reality. “No. I’ve recognized whispers, but nothing that makes sense. Shouldn’t it make sense?”

“Understanding comes with time. I promised to aid you.” Abelas held out his hands, palms facing the sky. “Let me.”

Smiling, Fena’dea placed her hands into his. His fingers closed over hers, the warmth of his skin feeling lovely despite the balmy afternoon. “What’s next?”

“Close your eyes, _lethallan._ Let our people’s past speak to you.”

She did as he instructed and closed her eyes to the world around them. At first, the sounds of Mother Giselle’s accented voice reached where she sat, preaching a sermon to Andraste’s faithful. A cool wind blew against her cheeks, drying the sticky sweat that beaded on her skin. The sweet scent of flowers that grew along the herbs in the garden calmed her, their aroma reminding her of the woods surrounding where Clan Lavellan always set up the aravels.

Releasing a contented sigh, Fena’dea concentrated on the voices in her mind. They spoke ancient elven, words having been lost to the centuries. She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to learn a lost language, but she listened anyway.

“Abelas-” She began when nothing had happened.

“Shh.”

It was his only reply so she did as he wanted and quieted her thoughts once more. She didn’t know how long they sat there, hands entwined and eyes closed to the chaos of Skyhold, but the sun’s heat had started to recede when she caught her first few words.

“ _All-Mother… protect… elvhenan… those that dwell there…_ ”

Her eyes opened wide, concern and excitement warring within. “Abelas, I heard it!”

Abelas met her gaze, a smile playing upon his lips. “Do you remember specific words, _lethallan_?”

“Parts of a prayer perhaps? I’m not sure, but I _understood_ it.” Laughing, she squeezed his hands, a grin breaking across her face. “How much is there to learn?”

Abelas thought about her question briefly. “There are thousands of memories within the well. Not all of them might be of interest, but it’ll get easier with practice.”

Thousands of memories was daunting, but for the first time she drinking from the Well of Sorrows, Fena’dea wasn’t afraid of what she’d done. To have a part of her people’s history in her thoughts, to be able to help the Dalish in ways she couldn’t before, renewed her. Sure, Velahari was the leader of the Inquisition, an elven mage with fantastic power, but Fena’dea was Mythal’s vessel. She would be able to protect the secrets of centuries of elves that had once served the goddess. She couldn’t wait to learn more.

“Are you prepared for the journey ahead?” Abelas asked, his eyes fixed on their hands.


End file.
